


The Beginning

by panoramiccc



Series: Bound To You [1]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: 9th Century, F/M, Historical Romance, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-06-12
Updated: 2012-06-16
Packaged: 2017-11-07 15:04:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/432460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/panoramiccc/pseuds/panoramiccc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Matthew Williams was living a normal life befitting a man of three and twenty. Freshly married with a child on the way, his life was wonderful one and he couldn’t be happier. However, all sense of normalcy shattered one night when the village was invaded by none other than the one they heard rumors of: a man who had the unnatural power of twenty, hardly needing his seemingly loyal army.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> True memories are not of mind and body, but those that remain forever written on the soul. True love is not of a single lifetime, but one that transcends time itself.

** 9th century Britain**

**  
**

Long ago when Matthew was just a child he dreamed of what would be an ideal life. He would watch his warrior father practice with his sword, performing manoeuvers that the child could only dream of performing. It didn't deter him, however, and with a stick in hand Matthew would beat at trees, sheds, and the straw filled dummy that would pose as the enemy.

Unfortunately, he didn’t come by the skill of fighting with a weapon easily.

His father, Edward Williams, happened upon his child one day and found promise in the fire that lit his eyes as he struck the dummy, so he took his young son under his wing and trained him to be a fighter; hoping that one day he could ride beside him into battle. However when young Matthew was faced with a human opponent that he was fond of, he found himself mentally and physically unable to deliver a punishing blow.

“Harder, boy! Harder!” His father would cry out as Matthew feebly lashed out with a wooden makeshift weapon. “You cannot kill anyone that way!”

“But I don’t  _want_  to kill anyone!” 

Edward then looked into his son’s unique violet eyes and knew for certain that he inherited even more of his mother’s traits, for with those slowly darkening lavender eyes came a certain power-- a power of magic. The village in which they lived was a small one, but their secret was one well hidden and treasured. Mary, his mother, was the town healer and highly sought after. There was suspicion that her gift inhabited the realm of white magic, but no one dared mention anything for fear of losing her.

Matthew, their only son and heir (the only child that survived beyond their third year), was born with the same gift. They found this out when he was a mere toddler, stumbling around the boundary of the forest that filled the fields behind their house. One day he managed to evade his father’s watchful gaze, and disappeared for quite some time among the trees. His parents were frantic by the time they found him a few paces into the forest, but before they grew too close they paused, for in his hands perched a small bird glowing in silver light.

“What in God’s name—“ Edward was cut off by Mary who slapped her hand to his chest in a silencing gesture. She watched her young son’s mouth move, trying to make out what he was saying and surprised that he was speaking at all.

Before long the silver light died down, and the bird flapped its wings once…twice… then upon the third flap it took off, soaring high into the sky. It was then, after Matthew made sure the bird was out of sight did he notice his parents. Standing drunkenly to his feet, Matthew cracked a huge smile as he looked up to his mother’s face, pointing with a pudgy finger in the direction that the bird had gone.

“Heal!”

Mary and Edward exchanged a quick look between each other before Mary sunk to her knees and picked the child up, running her knuckles softly down her son’s silken cheeks.

“You’re quite the extraordinary young man, Mattie.” His mother cooed, smiling in return to his toothless grin. She placed a hand over his heart and whispered, “never lose your gentle soul. No matter how the world hardens you, never lose your sense of compassion.”

Matthew leaned over to rest his head against his mother’s neck, rubbing his face against her and babbling softly into her skin.

Edward played with the sword at his side a bit disappointedly. He would never trade his son up for the world, but he couldn’t help but wish for a son who had fighting prowess instead of healing; one who would knock down an opponent with a single blow, not choose to avoid a fight. Although, as his son aged, he didn’t give up the training, and if anything increased it. Either through maturing or his own efforts to instill the thirst for battle, Edward found that Matthew could never be called a coward, because even though he would rather not fight, that didn’t mean he couldn’t.

There was one time when Matthew was in his fourteenth year that another boy made dishonouring comments about Matthew and his family, even going so far as to challenge him. Matthew related the story to his parents that they fought for a few minutes, and while Matthew was black and blue all over, his nose encrusted with blood, he gave his modest smile and he declared that the boy had to be dragged away by his friends, save he lie there unconscious.

It was then Edward realized that while he could fight when faced with no other options, and was best with hand to hand combat. Still not ideal for the battlefield, but it was an improvement.

\-  -  -  -   -  -  -  -   -  -  -  -    

As the years rolled by, hardship struck the land by the name of war. Whispers travelled on the wind and over the water of men lead by a single barbaric man who held the manpower of twenty. The warriors moved from village to village, pillaging all in their wake, taking and raping what they could before some chose to settle or move onward. It was during Matthew’s twenty-third year that the threat of war was palpable for their village.

“They say their leader has the power of an army within himself, and that his strength could rival the Lord! Do you think it possible? Could a man truly hold that much power?”

Matthew smiled and ran a long finger down his wife Marianne’s nose. “Those are naught but stories told by scared men, my love. It is not possible for a man to possess the power of God.” He brought her closer with a hand on her lower back, sliding their bare legs together as they lay entangled in heated sheets. “Besides, if he and his army managed to come here, I would fight to my very last breath to protect you.”

Pressing their foreheads together, Matthew sighed as he held his wife close, careful of her swollen belly. She was heavy with child and Matthew was full of the father-to-be jitters, treating her as though she was about to break. 

Their marriage was one of young, innocent love; a succulent fruit that bloomed from an innocent seed they planted a year prior. Young Marianne was a stonemason’s youngest daughter and Matthew saw her many times while walking through the village (specifically the areas she frequented). He fell for her elegant beauty, and was in raptures over her ladylike personality. She truly was the most exquisite creature he had ever beheld and wanted nothing more than to be her husband, but there was a long line of suitors from all over, much more eligible than he.  

What changed their innocent flirting into courtship was Matthew when he healed her from the sickness that struck her so suddenly. Her father, in fear that his youngest was dying, ran to their home and pleaded for medical aid in any form to save her. Skills long since refined, Matthew eagerly accepted and ran to her sickbed, seeing her pained, regal face to be as pale as her sheets. There he worked nonstop, waiting to see those ocean blue eyes open and fall upon him.

When she recovered and realized what he had done, Marianne took the liberty to thank him by pressing a chaste kiss to his left cheek. She never entertained another suitor after that-- only Matthew. 

Courting took to serious affection to premature intimacy, and eventually Matthew brought up the bashful courage to ask for her hand in marriage. Marianne accepted excitedly and they were wed a few days later (their parents didn’t understand the haste). Marianne was already a month or two pregnant when they wed. 

“Now enough of those unpleasant thoughts,” Matthew whispered, bringing himself back to the present. “Go to sleep, darling, and rest.”

“Ah yes, have to worry about your son too, don’t we?”

Pressing their lips together for a moment, Matthew smiled against her when she quickly teased his lips with her tongue. “Son or daughter, you know it matters not to me. Although, be it a daughter we could always try…” Matthew moved his hand up to tease beneath her nightdress, “and try again until we have a boy.”

Marianne moaned out and widened her legs, allowing Matthew free reign.

\-  -  -  -   -  -  -  -   -  -  -  - 

“Ah, thank you, son.” Edward grabbed the offered cup of water from Matthew’s hand and drank it down with a pained look.

“Father, why don’t you take a break from practicing? You’re not well and it’s evident on your face.” Matthew placed a tender hand on his father’s back and murmured familiar words, allowing the heat to spread until Edward’s hunched back straightened upward.

“I’ve still some life in me yet, boy, and I’m going to use it,” he replied with gruff affection, flashing a small smile, the smile his son inherited. “I dare not grow too accustomed to sitting in the house for fear of becoming soft. ...Not to mention there's still fear of invasion,” he added in almost an afterthought. 

Matthew just shook his head, crossed his arms, and leaned against the wall. “Maybe you should retire for the night. I’m sure mother and Marianne await us eagerly.”

“Aye, and surely you’re eager to be with your woman.” He smirked and smoothed his greying moustache.  

That caused him to blush and look away to the window. “Aye, she…,” a light in the corner of his eye caught Matthew’s attention. “Father, what’s that glow?” he asked, already crossing the room to stand before the glass.

Staggering to move beside his son, Edward felt his heart slam against his ribs at the sight. “It can’t be,” he whispered.

“What? What is it?”

His expression was grim when he looked across to his son. “The invaders…they’ve reached here.”

“Impossible!” Matthew cried, instantly running to grab a sword they kept beneath the workbench. His mind was racing with what needed to be done: defend their homes, help his sickly father, his mother— _Marianne._

“Son, wait--!”

“Father, we must make it to my place before they do!” Matthew ran ahead and only stopped halfway down the path when he couldn’t hear his father’s footsteps. His father’s form was running in the opposite direction toward the roaring fires and piercing screams. “Where are you going?!”

“You see to your wife and mother! I’ll help the others and hold them off for as long as possible!”

“No, we keep together!” Matthew ran towards his father, but stopped when the older man cut the air with his sword.

“I will  _not_  repeat myself!  _Go!_ ”

And with that Matthew helplessly watched his father run from sight.

Swallowing down the thickness that formed in his throat, Matthew forced his muscles to move at top speed towards his home. Men, women, and even children lay scattered at his feet throughout the town, and he could see the foreigners fighting and capturing his kinsfolk with ease. He too came in contact with some intruders but managed to evade their line of sight, needing every second he had to get home in time.

Matthew pushed himself onward until he saw his destination. Without slowing his pace he slammed the door open and ran inside screaming, “Marianne! Mother!” There was no answer, and he felt a cold, sick feeling permeate his body. His calls became shrill as he moved from room to room, finding things turned over or broken and without a sign of human life anywhere. His mind was of an unhealthy state by the time he reached the bedroom, and he punched the wall in a fit of anger upon finding it empty. When he moved in closer to check all corners, he noticed something dark that stained the bed partially hidden in the folds. Turning the sheets over, he almost vomited from the discovery. The bed was covered with blood.

Blood that surely belonged to Marianne.

“No…by all that is holy, please God, no…” Matthew stood and ran from the room.

He was just running around the side of his home when he came face to face with a group of six men, laughing and watching the couple galloping away on a horse off in the distance. One man who stood a ways behind the others noticed Matthew first, and with an ugly laugh he turned and walked towards him.

“Well what do we have here?”

“What are you doing at my home,” Matthew demanded, squaring his jaw.

“Your home?” the brown haired man echoed, scratching his chin before looking back to the horse in the distance. “So she was your wife then?”

The sensation of needles prickled over his skin as the man’s words registered. As he balled his fists, the world slowly coloured red before him and with a roughened voice Matthew whispered to the man dangerously. “What did you do to her?”

His anger amused the man for he let out a laugh that was grating on the ears. “Oh, I did nothing to her…it is Arthur that you have to worry about. He took one look at her, tied her up, and…” he gestured over his shoulder with his thumb. “As for the older woman, she had little use to us.” He turned this time towards a broken body off in the distance, lying face down with a dark pool soaking the grass around her. Matthew glanced back at the man and saw that in his right hand was a long knife stained with blood.

Unable to contain himself any longer Matthew snapped. Lunging at the man with more force than he knew he contained, he landed blow after blow against the man’s face, stomach, shin, and with his momentum even managed to wrench the knife from his hand. With grim determination and the knowledge of what would happen otherwise, Matthew took a deep breath to steel himself and thrust the knife deep into his stomach. Staring into the intruder's wet eyes, Matthew suddenly recalled his father's words. 

_Miss the ribs, son. Aim beneath the ribcage and thrust your sword upwards._

The man groaned but it didn't still him for long, and before he was able to push Matthew away the blonde struck once more. Matthew used all the force he had to puncture the man's torso, effectively missing his ribcage, and with a twist he pulled out the knife once more. Gaging from how the man couldn't scream out, he assumed that he punctured a lung. With the adrenaline pumping through his veins, Matthew ignored the hot, wetness that coated his hand, and delivered the final blow to the man's neck. He didn't prolong it at this point, merely made a slash that he hoped was deep enough to be fast, and threw the body to the ground. By this point the five other men were formed in a half circle, watching Matthew with raised brows. In the back of his mind he thought that they mustn't have had much loyalty to their comrade. 

“What--?”

“You heathens!” Matthew spat, hands still shaking from his first kill, the blood dripping from them in a steady cadence.

“The woman was dying anyway,” one sneered.

“Don’t you dare speak of my mother—“ Matthew couldn’t finish his sentence.

His emotions sparked something in the savages before him, much like an animal smelling freshly spilt blood. They crept towards him with dark smiles and a blonde on the jeered to him. “And after all that we’ve done for you. Arthur’s off to go tend to your wife, and we had to bury your child.”

Matthew dropped his arm as all feeling seemed to drain out of it. “What did you just say?”

“Apparently your wife had some difficulties while you were away and she lost the baby,” one commented blithely. “She’s as good as dead too.”

 “Look lads, the boy’s about to cry,” cackled another.

Matthew felt his eyes prickle as he looked to his mother’s fallen body on the grass, then to the fading form of his wife off in the distance. Indulging in a final look to his mother and holding onto the memory of his father and wife, he whispered, “forgive me.”

With a heart full of rage, Matthew ran towards the group with a single knife as his only defense, but heartbroken rage fueling him onwards towards his noble suicide.

\-  -  -  -   -  -  -  -   -  -  -  - 

Walking along the village with a grin he was unable to keep from his face, a tall blonde saw a group of men laughing at a lone man off in the distance. Curious as to the goings on, he ran closer to see what games his men were playing against the poor boy. Standing off to the side with a hand on his hip, he watched as the blonde attacked, seemingly incensed. As he observed the events as they played out, he noted that the blonde was roughly the same height as he, with hair the colour of spun gold in comparison to his own slightly darkened wheat colour. While his body was long and lean, his body had definition that was made evident as he made powerful arches with his fists; seemingly forgetting to utilize the knife at first. His hair was much longer than his own, with one long errant curl that had a tendency to bob around as he moved.

As he watched the blonde fight, his eyes widened as the man managed to best two of his men; one falling to the ground after the other until two managed to restrain him. The two each had an arm, and before the third man was able to gut him with the knife, he yelled to them.

“ _Hold!_ ”

His men snapped their heads up and turned around to face him, expressions quickly clearing upon seeing his face. “Alfred!”

As he walked forward, the one with the knife babbled onward, unnerved by the scornful look he was receiving. “Apologies, my lord, we were just having a bit of fun with this one.”

“Having a bit of… _fun?_  Was that what I told you to do when taking over the village? To torture innocent people?”

The man looked down. “No, my lord.”

Alfred held his hand out for the weapon, which the man quickly placed in his palm. After testing the weight for a moment, Alfred pressed the side of the blade against the man's cheek. “Let there be no such further action, save you receive the same as punishment,” he whispered darkly to him, the sheer force of his aura making the man cower in fear.

Turning his attention to the man who stared at blindly ahead of him with hatred burning in his eyes, Alfred was taken aback by the beauty of those unique eyes. The colour was one he had never seen before, an exquisite shade of violet, and they were formed perfectly, along with a strong brow. Even with his face covered in sweat, dirt and blood, his countenance darkened with rage, the man was captivating. Alfred walked closer to him, nodding to the two who still held him tight, and with a firm hand to his jaw he lifted the blonde’s face.

“Such unique eyes you have…” he murmured. There was something about this man, something deep down inside of him that was different; Alfred could feel it, but he couldn’t place a finger upon it just yet. As he held onto his jaw, Matthew then looked up at Alfred at that point, and he felt the full force of those amethyst eyes. “You must be quite the commodity. Tell me, what power comes with violet eyes?” he asked breathlessly. 

“The power to make you rot in Hell.” Matthew spat in his face.

The men flanking him gasped, but Alfred merely wiped his face and smiled warningly down to him. “There is much fire in you, it seems, even when you’re obviously bested. Maybe it would be beneficial to keep you around….” Alfred noticed the looks his men were giving him from his peripheral vision, so he added, “I feel you would be a powerful addition to my men.”

“I would rather die!” With a roar Matthew wrenched his face away and struggled to free his arms, but crumpled when Alfred punched him hard in the stomach, knocking all wind from his lungs.

“Looks like this one needs a bit of training…" he commented casually, flexing his hand. “Take him to my tent and tie him up. On the morrow I’m setting out ahead to look at the neighbouring villages.” Alfred looked down into Matthew’s hate filled eyes, feeling a bit attached. “Perhaps a bit of time in my company will loosen him up.”

Alfred’s eyes never left Matthew’s back as the two dragged him away. 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Taken prisoner, Matthew had only two options: wait and see what the leader Alfred had in store for him and leave Marianne to her fate, or find a way to escape. It was obvious what he had to do.

Matthew struggled and pulled at the rope that bound his wrists together, chafing his skin in the process until it was red and raw.  He was much too angry to indulge in sorrow just yet, and found himself shutting off all emotions in order to keep his objective first and foremost. Matthew's muscles were already protesting his efforts and he cursed the guards for trying the ropes so tight, as well as the added ties around his ankles which rendered him helpless.

His skin was burning too much for Matthew to stand any longer, so he chose to go through different potential methods of revenge in his head. Above all,  he had to try to get to Marianne and save her from the one called Arthur, who was probably as far as the next town by now. As for his father…. Matthew closed his eyes and gave a silent prayer in his memory, because it  was certain he had perished. His father was a proud man and wouldn't acknowledge that he didn't have the same stamina he once used to have. He was older and weaker while the men they faced were young and spry.

The tent flap moved aside the moment a few tears escaped from his eyes.

“Ah, you’re still up.” Alfred muttered, seeing Matthew’s face turn away. “It would be best if you slept: our journey is long and tedious tomorrow.”

Matthew inhaled slowly a few times before he trusted his voice enough to speak. “I’m not going with you.” He looked up to Alfred and watched as he removed what seemed like countless weapons from his person. What he wouldn't give to be able to grab at least one of them.

The warrior paused in removing his tunic, taking note of the look in the prisoner's eyes. “You’re not going?” he echoed. “And why is that?”

“Do you honestly think I’m going to make this easy for you?” Matthew said, bite in his voice. He slowly raised his head, his wet eyes glaring daggers in Alfred’s direction. Matthew refused to look him in the eye.

Alfred scoffed. “And what have I done to you? If anything I saved you from being cut open.”

“It was your men who entered my village, your men who killed my family. One of your men made away with my wife and my mother's body is currently putrefying in a pool of her own blood! Don’t parade before me as though you are my saviour when you’re the poisonous root all this has stemmed from.” Matthew pulled at his binds once more, gritting his teeth against the pain.

Lowering his eyes, Alfred looked at the ground for a moment before glancing at the table his men prepared for him. Taking the washbasin and the cloth both sitting upon it, Alfred crossed the distance between them and sat behind Matthew, stilling the man's retreat by placing a hand on his shoulder .

“I’m not going to harm you. I promise you I’m not. What happened to your family was not my intention when I came here—“

“Don’t insult me with your lies. You came and conquered, and you knew death would be the result.”

Alfred had nothing to refute that. “Aye, I did.” With slow, deliberate movements, he submerged the cloth in the clean water, allowing it to saturate a bit before dabbing at the torn skin of Matthew’s wrist. Alfred pulled the cloth away quickly after hearing Matthew gasp. “Sorry,” he murmured, softening his actions.

Matthew was temporarily left speechless by Alfred's tender touches. The only words that he could find were antagonizing. “So the fearsome Alfred is playing nursemaid to his personal prisoner? How gentle your hands are, _my lord._ ”

Laughter was the last thing he expected to hear.

“If you’re trying to anger me you will have to work harder than that. I just don’t want this to get infected. I doubt my company is so abhorrent that you would desire death.”

Despite Alfred's impersonal tome, there was something intimate and familiar in his touches and the slow burn that formed in Matthew’s stomach. Alfred’s hands were so warm it felt like they seared his very soul.

As Matthew was struggling to understand the odd sensations running through him, Alfred was battling with his own thoughts. He ran a finger down the center of Matthew's palm and found that while his fingertips were slightly calloused, the rest of his hand was soft and smooth. It took everything Alfred had to suppress his desire of running that hand along his cheek, gently mouth kisses against— Alfred shook his head, feeling overly warm. These thoughts were wrong, disgusting, and sinful, and he shouldn’t be thinking of them.

Needing a distraction, he tried to ask him his name. “What do they call you?”

“And why should you care?”

“I’d like to know your name,” he stated. When Matthew remained silent, Alfred reached forward, grabbed his chin, and turned his face towards him; but Matthew’s eyes refocused on the ground. “Tell me,” he whispered. Alfred suddenly found himself distracted by the soft, full lips that were closer than they should have been.

“Go to the Devil.”

The thoughts remained, if anything, grew, especially when Matthew whispered the words to him and those lips moved sinfully. ‘ _Why isn’t he looking at me?’_ he wondered.

 “Let go of me!”  Matthew tried to shoulder Alfred back.

The movement threw Matthew off-balance, landing him in the warrior's lap and leaving them both stunned. Alfred took in a deep breath while staring into those intoxicating violet eyes, and was about to run his hand over Matthew's cheek but the blond recovered and rolled away.

 “Don’t touch me,” he uttered.

Alfred’s face hardened and he roughly cleared his throat. “Fine, let those cuts fester. I don’t care.” Alfred stood and threw the cloth at Matthew’s face. “You better be asleep by the time I return: I don't want to see your waking face again."

“You won’t…” Matthew grated out, still not looking at him.

Glaring down his nose at him for a moment, Alfred scoffed and stormed out of the tent.

\-  -  -  -   -  -  -  -   -  -  -  -    

_“Now, my darling, there’s another lesson that I must teach you.”_

_“What’s that, Mama?”_

_Mary held out her empty hand, and with a snap of her fingers fire ignited. The flame hovered just above her fingers, and the strong orange glow washed over their faces._

_”Mother, what is this?” he asked, restraining himself from reaching out to see if it was real._

_She snapped her fingers once more and the fire vanished. Matthew was a little disappointed, but his expression cleared when he saw the serious look on his mother's face. Mary spoke with a controlled, gentle voice and chose her words carefully._

_“With the setting sun comes the moon, and so with light also comes dark. What can be used to heal can also be used to hurt. Now this isn't something to abuse, for every gift has its price: using our gifts to heal doesn't harm us, but using black magic does. You'll feel weaker, drained, and it only worsens with constant use and bigger spells."_

_Suddenly a huge gust of wind swept through their room toppling Matthew onto his back. His mother smiled and helped him back up._

_"From minor tricks to manipulating objects and people, it's important that you only use it when you absolutely must. Never let anyone know. Refrain from using it in plain sight of others, and beware of who knows your name, they may be a foe."_

_This puzzled the young blond. "But why, Mama? Many people know our name...." He pressed into the hand that gently cupped his cheek._

_"I know it's confusing, dear. They say that those who know your name hold power you. Just...be careful who you tell, understood?"_

_"Yes, Mama." Matthew tugged on his curl for a few moments before flashing a bashful smile at her. "Can I try? Just a little one?"_

_Mary gave a quiet chuckle. "Of course."  
_

\-  -  -  -   -  -  -  -   -  -  -  -    

  
A few tears smeared on his cheeks and Matthew closed his eyes tightly, needing to chase emotional memories; now was not the time to show weakness or lose focus. 

Speaking in tongues that came to him by nature, Matthew worked through the throbbing in his head and pulled at his binds. The fibres grew weaker and weaker still, as though they were being slowly cut by a blade, until he felt them give entirely. He was a bit winded by the time he was free, but he rolled to his feet, refusing to be slowed down. With the thought that it might be useful, he collected the rope, and then glanced around and outside of the tent.

There were two men standing by the entrance—that he could by their voices. It was obvious that he couldn't sneak out that way, and Matthew was just about to try lifting the other side of the tent when the men started talking.

"Do you think he is capable of accomplishing it, Peter?"

"Who? Mathias?"

"Do not say his name!" the other hissed.

"You know how often he speaks in airs, Mark. If he's actually going to go through with it, I know not."

"I heard he recently won over another twenty men. Soon enough he will have more than half--"

"Which isn't nearly enough to take on Alfred. You've seen him in action; he can cut a man in two with a single blow."

"Even the fiercest of animals can be subdued..."

The men continued to chatter in tones too low for Matthew to hear, but he had his fill. Flexing his hands twice, he took a deep breath and peeled the tent fabric back enough to see the figures outside-- he needed to see their expressions to know if it worked. Mouthing the words required, Matthew watched as the men lost all rigidity in their bodies and gain a glassy expression.

Slightly lightheaded, Matthew gave a quiet, humourless laugh stumbling out of the tent and seeing no other men about. Fortunately, Alfred's tent away from the others, so it was relatively simple to walk about...until he spotted horses. They were unguarded, but there was a group of men walking away from them and right for Matthew.

Falling to his knees, he quickly grabbed a handful of dirt and rubbed it between his palms, murmuring another incantation. The moist dark clumps suddenly turned into the softest of sand, and Matthew divided it as evenly as possible to dust each shoulder. With a quiet prayer and the hope that he followed in his mother's footsteps, Matthew stood and made his way silently towards the horses.

As the men approached, Matthew could feel his heart hammering in his chest almost painfully (or was it the side effect of his spell?). A cold sweat broke out over his skin, and he felt his stomach about to protest, but he forced his feet to move forward. One step, another, and then another, until finally he was within perfect sight of the enemy. He watched three of them talked amongst themselves, but the fourth turned his head up and glanced right at him.

Matthew's heart stopped, and his step faltered. The man looked back to his comrades and laughed over what the far blond said.

They walked right by him as though Matthew wasn't even there.

He would have laughed if he could.

\-  -  -  -   -  -  -  -   -  -  -  -    

Alfred had finished discussing Arthur's whereabouts with his second-in-command and tiredly made his way back to the tent. He had been dreading being around the confusing temptation that was his prisoner and having to relay the information he felt obliged to tell him, but when he flung the fabric aside and walked in, he found that he didn't have to worry about it.   
  
The tent was empty.   
  
"Lars!" Alfred bellowed, running back to his men.   
  
"What's wrong?"  
  
“Who was in charge of the tent?!"  
  
Unfazed by his anger but puzzled by his question, Lars cautiously responded, "Peter and Mark."  
  
"Bring them here. _Now_."  
  
With a snap of his fingers, Lars signalled to a nearby group of four to go get the men in question. Within a minute, the two were thrown before Alfred's feet, trembling like scared rabbits.   
  
Staring down his nose to them, Alfred bent forward, slow and deliberate. "How is it the prisoner got away?" he started in a calm tone, but his volume quickly rose. "Your job was to guard the tent and ensure he remained inside! How is it that you could lose a bound man?!"  
  
"Forgive us, my lord! We remained at our post the entire time! We didn't see anyone come or leave!"  
  
Alfred could feel the vein throb in his neck.  
  
"My lord Jones, we have a horse unaccounted for! W-we've looked all over and can't find it, and…"  
  
“Spit it out, man!” he barked, vision flooding with red.

The man had to clear his throat to keep from stuttering. “It…was yours, sir.”

"You're telling me..." he started silkily, "that not only has my prisoner escaped, but he has escaped with _my_ horse?" He looked to the two men before him.   
  
"Forgive us..."  
  
"We stayed vigilant, we swear it...!"   
  
Alfred waved a hand dismissively. Their faces brightened, but only for a second. "I need to go after him. Lars, whip them in my stead. But don't kill them," he added over his shoulder.   
  
With his eyes set on an average sized horse, Alfred vaulted up and quickly spurred it into a gallop. "Come on, boy, fly like the wind. We need to catch him." The horse was smaller and it didn’t ride as well as his horse that stood at twenty hands, but that wasn’t what made him worry. He knew that he would catch up eventually, that was inevitable, but what made Alfred’s heart beat painfully was the knowledge that the animal his prisoner left with was one of the most temperamental animals he had ever dealt with—that was one of the reasons it was assigned to him. No one else could tame the beast.

 _‘Why am I so concerned with this man’s safety?’_ he thought. The horse’s hooves pounded against the open field. _‘I barely know him. His death means nothing to me or my greater objectives. I could let him die, and, if anything, be better off for it. It’s not like he’s worth anything or could be held for ransom. He’s just a nobody…so why can’t I turn around?’_

Alfred gritted his teeth and urged the horse to go faster. As the wind whipped past him, it took his questioning thoughts with it. In their place only one thought remained:

_‘Please don't let him be dead.’_


End file.
